


Anchor

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Animal Attack, Arthur Whump, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Hosea is a dad, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, hurt Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:53:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: With men hunting them from every direction, its easy to forget that people aren't always the enemy, and a gunshot is far from the worst kind of pain.





	1. Chapter 1

_ “What’re you hunting, an elephant?”  _

Thinking back on it, Arthur supposed he hadn't been far off. When Hosea said he’d found the biggest bear he’d ever seen, he probably should have elaborated, or at least reminded Arthur that they’d all seen their fair share of abnormally large bears. 

If he’d been given a better idea of what they were hunting, Arthur probably would have argued that Hosea’s plan to hunt this thing on the ground was absolute bullshit. 

“Arthur!”

And yet here they were, two stupid fools trudging around on the ground, meandering right into the beast's lair, hunched over a bait that was probably utterly useless in the first place. They were all the bait they needed, the animal probably tracking their scent as soon as they set foot into its territory.

Hosea had fled back to the rocks without a second thought, Arthur planting himself between the bear and the older man, raising his gun and firing two bullets into the beast’s chest. 

It did nothing but make it angry, baring it’s sharp, rotting teeth in a horrible snarl as it charged forward, already too close for Arthur to fire another shot. 

He barely had enough time to think that this thing was more monster than bear, looking strikingly similar to the drawings he’d seen in some of the books around camp Jack seemed to enjoy, before he was slammed onto his back, a rush of hot, putrid breath suddenly blasting in his face. 

The bear roared above him, claws sinking into Arthur’s shoulders, digging deeper when he tried to twist away. He managed to reach down to his belt and grip the handle of his knife, pulling it up and slamming it into the monster’s neck. 

The bear reared up with an outraged growl, unfortunately taking the knife with it before Arthur could land another blow. It hadn’t been nearly enough to deter the attack, but the claws briefly left his shoulders and Arthur scrambled backwards, reaching for his gun. 

The bear lunged forward, snapping its jaws around Arthur’s forearm before he could fire, dragging him forward, the gun clattering to the ground. He cried out when the animal threw him into the ground, his face hitting the dirt. 

He was barely given time to register the new bursts of pain before something sharp was digging into his shoulders, raking down and dragging him across the dirt, flipping him onto his back with ease. 

He was defenseless and unarmed, feeling his own blood seep into his sleeve and the back of the shirt, the cuts stinging and throbbing, mind racing as he scanned the grass for his weapons. 

And then the bear sunk its teeth into his skin, biting down just above Arthur’s hip, blood pooling around its muzzle. It threw its head back and forth, shaking him like a ragdoll. His hearing took a moment to catch up with him, and Arthur idly realized he was screaming. 

At some point he landed on his side and he tried to pull away, to curl up and protect himself as best he could. He tucked his head under his arms as the bear raked its claws across his upper back, before something pressed against his chest, slamming him back down, claws quickly piercing his skin and sinking deeper. 

He had no way to fight back. His strength was already fading, his clothes tattered and soaked with blood, and each time he tried desperately to pull away, the claws and teeth only held tighter, pressing down, shaking him and tossing him through the grass like he was a butchered piece of meat. 

The beast dragged its claws across his chest and stomach, digging deeper and deeper, Arthur’s screams growing louder as his skin was ripped and torn apart like paper.

“Hosea!” he screamed, purely out of instinct, knowing it was futile. Hosea was long gone, and that was exactly what Arthur wanted. They couldn’t both be killed by this thing, even if he would end up torn to pieces, hurting and alone, scattered across the forest floor in the middle of nowhere. 

He was starting to become lightheaded, blood pooling in his mouth and sliding down his chin, his frantic kicks at the animal’s matted and bloody stomach growing weaker. 

There was suddenly pressure against the side of his face, the bear’s huge, blood-soaked paw pressing into his head, pushing him into the ground, its other claws still digging viciously into Arthur’s gut. 

It took a moment for the gunshots to register, Arthur’s focus solely on the monster looming above him,the unbearable pain worsening each second the tiny knives were left in his skin, the blood slowly leaking from his battered body. 

But the gunshots didn't stop, bullets firing over and over again as the bear pulled back, its claws leaving Arthur’s flesh with an awful sucking sound, writhing and jerking back as it bled. 

And then the bear went still, crashing back down on top of Arthur, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. 

Hosea had said the bear weighed nearly a thousand pounds, and now that the animal’s full weight was on top of him, Arthur decided the older man had been wrong, that a thousand-pound weight would have been comfortable compared to this. 

The bear pressed against his countless injuries, the burden digging into the bite above his hip, pushing the claw marks along his back into the dirt below him. 

Arthur tried to scream, tried to arch up against the pain, but his lungs were flattened in his broken chest, uselessly trying to pull in air he couldn’t get, his entire body trapped under an unmoving weight, crushing him, slowly squeezing out what life he still had. 

“Arthur! Hang on, Arthur, just hold on. I’m sorry, Arthur, I’m so sorry, just please keep holding on, I’ve almost got you.” 

Arthur could barely hear his frantic words, squeezing his eyes shut as the bear was slowly moved off of him, rolled over onto its side, limp and bloody. He tried to help, barely able to move his arms. It felt like hours before the weight was completely gone, the suffocating pressure still lingering, and Arthur was choking on his own desperate gasps. 

There were hands on his shoulders, helping him sit up, his frantic gasping only growing worse when the movement pulled at every one of his injuries. 

“Breathe, Arthur,” Hosea said, though Arthur still couldn’t make out exactly where the other man was. “Just breathe, just--oh god, ok, lean back for me. Keep breathing, you’re losing  a lot of blood.” 

Arthur said nothing, only gritted his teeth against the waves of pain, tasting coppery blood in his mouth. He was lead backwards, leaned up against the tree trunk he’d been dragged to, crying out when it pressed against the cuts on his back and shoulders. But it was nothing compared to the massive hole in the side of his stomach, the wound seeming to be Hosea’s main focus. 

Arthur blinked, vision clearing slightly as he watched the older man. Hosea was pulling off his coat, wadding it up into a tight ball, face expressionless as he worked, not even bothering to give any warning before he pressed the cloth into the wound, pushing down.  

Arthur was screaming before he even felt the pain, arching up off the ground as the cloth was pushed down harder, kicking and thrashing uselessly, instinctively pulling at the hands on his stomach.

“Stop fighting me,” Hosea ordered, his weight suddenly on top of Arthur’s legs, trying to keep him still. “Jesus, stop  _ moving,  _ Arthur!”

Arthur, barely understanding anything other than the pain and Hosea’s suddenly commanding presence, did as he was told, biting back his screams into agonized whimpers. He glanced down, unable to look away as his own blood seeped into the cloth of Hosea’s coat, turning the green a dark crimson. 

“Shit!” Hosea’s curse took him by surprise, Arthur crying out again when he flinched. “The bleeding isn’t stopping...I need you to put pressure on it.” 

It took a moment for Arthur to realize Hosea was talking to him, another to understand what he was supposed to do. 

“Arthur!” Hosea snapped, the anger in the older man’s tone making him wince. “Put your hands next to mine and press  _ down.” _

Arthur raised his arms, his hands shaky and useless, his shredded arm throbbing unbearably. He blinked up at Hosea, feeling slow and weak. 

“I-I c-can’t--” 

“Yes you  _ can,”  _ Hosea insisted. “Put your hands on mine. Right now, Arthur, come on. You’re going to be fine but you can’t bleed out on me.” 

He held Hosea’s gaze and slowly moved his arms, everything feeling too heavy, the waves of constant pain weighing him down. Arthur was pretty sure he was beyond saving at this point, but at least the animal wouldn’t get the chance to make him dinner. 

His hands found Hosea’s, feeling his own warm blood beneath his fingers, the pressure briefly leaving his side before something grabbed his wrists and Hosea pushed Arthur’s hands against the wound. 

He gasped, once again kicking out uselessly, trying to dislodge the weight. But Hosea showed no signs of moving, only pushing ruthlessly on Arthur’s hands, blood squirting in between his fingers. 

_ “Hosea--”  _

“Arthur, be quiet,” he snapped. 

“Hosea, please--” 

“Arthur, stop  _ talking!”  _ He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever heard Hosea so on edge. “I know it hurts but I need you to breathe and keep pressure on the bite. Do you understand? Don’t move, I’ll be right back.” 

“Wh-where’re you--?”

“Keep trying to stop the bleeding, Arthur,” he said, and without another word Hosea’s hands were gone, leaving Arthur to weakly hold onto the cloth, his shivering only worsening his torture.

Hosea’s comforting presence was gone, leaving Arthur cold and alone as the fear began to set in, the pain worsening with each horrible moment. His blinked rapidly, turning his head, vision growing gray and fuzzy. He didn’t let go of the cloth, forced to feel his own blood ooze through his mangled skin and spread across his hands.

Arthur wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but eventually he could smell smoke, saw the small gray clouds spiraling into the air, and heard the first crackling of fire. 

“Hosea?” he called, trying to turn his head to see what was happening. Making a fire seemed like the least of their worries right now. 

“Right here,” Hosea’s voice said, suddenly crouched in front of Arthur, face drawn. He worked quickly, undoing his necktie with stained hands, shoving it towards Arthur. “Bite down on this.” 

“Wh--” 

“Bite  _ down.”  _

Arthur didn’t try to argue, letting the cloth be pushed in between his teeth, forced to breathe heavily through his nose. He watched Hosea, trying to figure out what the older man was doing as he brandished his knife, holding the blade over the open flames of the small fire. 

Arthur’s eyes widened as the silver turned to red amidst the flames, realization dawning. He jerked up in alarm, hands leaving his side, trying to talk around the cloth in his mouth. 

“No, no, no, stop moving.” Hosea was sitting on his legs again, keeping him against the ground, one hand against the small part of his chest that hadn’t been ripped apart. “It’s going to hurt, but I need you to try and keep still.”

Arthur was shaking too hard to nod, too terrified to fully grasp Hosea’s words. But he was in too much pain to fight against him, and without warning Hosea pressed the flat end of the blade against the bite wound. 

Arthur screamed, the sound muffled by the necktie in his mouth, but he could hear his own agonized cries echoing in his ears. The pain was worse than all his other injuries combined, Arthur fighting blindly, forgetting the deep cuts and gashes. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Hosea was chanting above him, Arthur barely able to hear his words. “Please, Arthur. I know it hurts but please,  _ please  _ try not to fight me. You’re going to make it worse if you keep moving.” 

He could hardly struggle anymore, his thrashing dying down, exhaustion winning over. For a split second, the knife was lifted away, the burning pain fading. But then it was back as quickly as it left, the nauseating stench of burning flesh wafting into the air, the agonizing waves of white-hot pain wracking through his body, over and over and over again, Hosea’s words falling away into meaningless mumbles. 

Arthur kept screaming until his throat hurt nearly as bad as everything else. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t get Hosea to show him mercy, couldn’t understand what was happening. 

His eyes slipped shut at one point, the world melting away into an inky black, the pain and fear following him into oblivion


	2. Chapter 2

Hands coated in blood, Hosea finally pulled the knife away, trying not to gag on the overpowering stench of burning flesh he’d tainted the air with. 

Arthur’s head had fallen to his chest, limp and unresponsive, eyes closed. But he was still breathing, Hosea taking a moment to watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest to assure himself Arthur wasn’t dead. Not yet. 

He’d stopped the bleeding in the most severe wound, but that still left the rest of them, Arthur’s body littered in bloody gashes and claw marks. He was losing blood fast, and they didn’t have the supplies to deal with them properly. 

Hosea whistled, cursing under his breath when the forest remained silent. The horses had fled in a panic, much like he had done, though he doubted they would have been much use. There was no way he could get Arthur in a saddle, and the few medical supplies he had in his satchel wouldn’t do much good. They needed to get him someplace safe and warm. 

Arthur’s breath suddenly hitched before picking up again, shallow and rapid. Hosea scooted closer, realizing that his shivering had stopped, his slack face pale and clammy. 

“Hang on, Arthur,” Hosea whispered, like his words would miraculously have some effect. “You ain’t dying before me, son.” 

He carefully pulled back Arthur’s jacket, peeling it away from his sticky skin, unbuttoning the top of his shirt with steady hands. It was slightly counterproductive, Arthur desperately needing to be kept warm, but stopping as much of the blood flow as he could was more important.  

He maneuvered Arthur to lay on his bruised back, painfully aware of the injuries on his shoulders that would have to be dealt with as soon as possible. Hosea winced when the younger man whimpered in his sleep as his legs were elevated.

Hosea reached for Arthur’s discarded satchel, sifting through it until he pulled out a roll of bandages and a wadded up rag. It wouldn’t be much, but it was the best they could do for now. He needed to clean out the cuts with medicine he didn’t have, and stitch up the worst of the gashes with supplies miles out of their reach. 

Hosea pushed the rag into a deep claw mark across Arthur’s chest, bubbling with crimson blood. He winced when Arthur shifted in his sleep, face pinched tight in pain. 

And then, just audible over his own heartbeat and Arthur’s ragged breathing, the sound of a wagon filled the forest air, and Hosea let out a shaky breath. 

“Thank god,” he said aloud, reluctantly pulling his hands away. “I’ll try and get you some help, Arthur. I’ll be right back, I promise.” 

He stood, knowing he hadn’t been heard, still feeling the need to say it. The approaching wagon could be carrying anyone, Pinkertons, O’driscolls, but at this point he didn’t care. Without help, Arthur was dead anyway. 

There were only two horses pulling the worn down wagon and Hosea could only see one man in the driver’s seat. He took a breath, held up his hands, and stepped into the road. It was the first time in a long time he’d approached a wagon with good intentions. 

“Sir!” he called, praying the man would have at least a shred of sympathy. The horses were pulled to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. “Please, we need--” 

There was a shotgun in his face before he could finish, Hosea’s heart sinking as he fell silent. But the man didn’t look like he belonged to any gang, his hold on the weapon unsteady. 

“Stay where you are” he ordered, voice gruff and wary. “I’m just trying to get home, I don’t want no trouble.” 

“I’m not robbing you,” Hosea insisted, all too aware of how desperate he sounded. “I need help, sir, please, we--we were hunting and there...there was a bear and he’s…” 

The man’s eyes had left him, widening when they landed on the unconscious, bloody form on the ground a few paces away. The stranger paled, gun lowering. 

“Oh,  _ Jesus.”  _

“He’s in a bad way,” Hosea agreed, his mental clock ticking with each precious second they wasted. “I can--I think I can help him, but I need to get him someplace safe.”

“I don’t--” 

_ “Please.”  _ Hosea was begging now, no longer caring how desperate he sounded. “We won’t cause you any trouble, but I can’t get him on a horse and he’ll...he’ll bleed out. Please, I just need him somewhere warm.”

The man hesitated, glancing from Hosea to Arthur, the gun finally lowering and set aside. Hosea’s legs wobbled under the relief, already moving across the grass as the other man climbed down from the wagon. 

“Get him in the back,” he said. “My wife and I have a cabin not far from here. We’ll help as best we can. Come on, hurry.” 

“Thank you,” Hosea said, doubting the man understood just how much this meant. “Can you grab his legs? Careful, he’s--” 

“I got him,” he promised, crouching beside Arthur’s still frame. His eyes fell on the bear’s body, the one Hosea had been working very hard not to think about. “Jesus, look at that thing.” 

“I’m going to turn the son of a bitch into a rug,” Hosea said, grimly reminding himself of Dutch, easily able to imagine how furious the other man would be. He crouched, cautiously positioning his arms under Arthur’s soaked shoulders. “After he’s ok.” 

The man nodded, frowning as he maneuvered Arthur’s legs, the younger man still unresponsive. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” he said, like Hosea somehow hadn’t noticed. 

He didn’t respond, only nodded once before the two of them lifted Arthur in a single pull, the younger man’s eyes instantly snapping open as he cried out in pain, his whole body going tense. 

“You’re ok,” Hosea lied as they started towards the wagon. “We’re just moving you. You’ll be...you’ll be home soon, alright?” 

Arthur said nothing, his breathing still quick and frantic. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and Hosea’s chest ached. 

They managed to get Arthur into the back, Hosea climbing in beside him, the other man glancing at the gashes and cuts with rising concern. 

“Christ,” he muttered. “He needs a doctor, Mister.” 

“I know,” Hosea said, hating how bleak and hopeless everything had become. Just like everything else in their lives lately. “But we don’t have time.”

Arthur’s breath caught again, and he whimpered quietly when his head was leaned against Hosea’s leg, the bloody rag pressed against his chest. The man disappeared from the opening, hurrying around to the front and climbing back to his seat. The wagon lurched forward, starting down the forest path. 

“Hosea?” Arthur called, weak and pained. He unsuccessfully tried to raise his head, blinking rapidly. 

“I’m here,” Hosea said, carefully taking his other hand in a gentle squeeze. “Hang in there, Arthur. We’re almost there.” 

“I-I...I’m--” 

“Be quiet,” Hosea ordered, hating how shaky Arthur’s voice was, hated not being able to hear him breathe. “Don’t talk, Arthur, you’ll hurt yourself.” 

Arthur gave no sign he had heard, but he fell silent, his ragged breathing the only noise filling the wagon. 

Hosea went back to work, cleaning the wounds as best he could. When the rag was completely soaked through with blood, Hosea tied it around Arthur’s wrist, desperate to top as much of the blood flow as he could.

Arthur cried out but Hosea ignored him, determined to keep his hands steady as he tightened the cloth, despite the way his heart was breaking with each weakening heartbeat. 

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered, echoing Hosea’s silent words. “S...sorry, I wasn’t...I wasn’t fast enough--I couldn’t kill it, he--” 

Hosea squeezed his hand, hearing the growing distress in his quiet voice. “It's my fault, Arthur, not yours. Ok? I did this and I'm going to fix it, I promise.” 

The younger man still remained unresponsive, and Hosea wondered how awake he really was. But Arthur wasn’t going to die, not because of some stupid impulse Hosea had followed without thinking. 

There wasn’t much more he could do in the back of the wagon other than keep Arthur as comfortable as possible and try to soften the jostling of his injuries as the horses dragged them over rocky, uneven forest terrain. 

Hosea kept talking, soft and reassuring, not even sure his words were being heard in the first place. But the sound of his voice seemed to keep Arthur at ease, or at least give him something to focus on while he rode out the pain. 

It felt like hours before the wagon finally came to a stop and he heard the man in the driver’s seat scrambling to the ground, Hosea already working on moving Arthur forward. The man waited at the opening, holding his arms out to help steady the younger man as he was lead to the ground. 

“Christina!” the man called as they stepped away from the wagon. Arthur’s legs were shaking too badly to keep himself up, Hosea and the stranger practically carrying him towards the quaint cabin tucked away in the trees. “Hurry, get him inside. Christina!” 

The door flung open and a frazzled looking woman hurried outside, eyes widening when she saw the scene in front of her. 

“Who’s--” 

“Christina, start a fire,” the man ordered, barely sparing his wife a glance. “And find us some medical supplies. Hurry.” 

The woman didn’t hesitate, turning back and disappearing into the house, and Hosea didn’t give her a second thought. Arthur’s quiet whimpers had turned to groans, and he was fairly sure most of the cuts were only bleeding heavier than before. 

“Let’s get him on the couch,” Hosea said, doing a quick survey of the space. The living room was small and tidy, the woman working frantically to light the fireplace at the front of the room, hands shaking. “Watch his back, it’s pretty torn up.” 

It was a massive understatement, and if Hosea wasn’t busy panicking over each noise coming from Arthur, he might have felt bad about the irreparable damage the blood would do to the couch. 

“What happened?” Christina asked, Arthur crying out as they laid him against the cushions. The fire had sparked to life, Hosea shuddering under the memory of burnt flesh. 

“Bear attack,” the man explained. “These fellas ran into that big scarred bastard we saw a few weeks back. Christina, go get us some wet towels before he bleeds out.” 

Hosea clenched his jaw, trying not to let the words sink in. Arthur had already lost too much blood, not to mention the damage from what Hosea had to do to him. The burn mark was still red and tender, and being dragged across the house couldn’t have done him any favors. 

“H...Hosea?” Arthur called again, his voice a breathy whisper, brow furrowed in confusion as he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. 

“You’re ok, Arthur,” Hosea promised, no longer caring if these strangers knew who they were. He just needed Arthur to know he was safe. “You’re doing good. Hang in there for me, ok?” 

“Here,” Christina said, mound of damp towels in her arms. “I can go get more if--” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hosea said, already dropping to his knees beside the couch, the water from the cloths dripping down his arms. He pushed down on Arthur’s bloody chest, wincing when he gasped in pain, the woman’s husband following suit on his sides and stomach. 

It wasn’t much, Arthur needed a doctor, real medicine and stitches, but this was more than Hosea had been willing to hope for. 

“That’s a lot of blood,” Christina shakily commented, watching as the towels were quickly stained with a deep, wet crimson, cast aside, and replaced. “Will he be ok, Tom?” 

Her husband, Tom, let out a quiet breath, glancing at Arthur’s paling face. “I don’t--”

“Yes,” Hosea said before he could finish. “He’s a fighter. He’ll be just fine in a couple days.” 

They were both staring at him now, unmistakable pity in their eyes, but Hosea refused to look up from his work. He knew how ridiculous he sounded, how close Arthur already was to slipping out of his grasp, but if Dutch had taught him anything it was that blind faith in someone was the easiest lie to follow. 

Arthur had been through worse, they both had, and they’d survived this long. He wasn’t going to bleed out in a run-down cabin in the middle of nowhere while Hosea could only desperately press down on his wounds and watch. 

“Sir, he’s...he’s lost a lot of blood.” 

“I  _ know.”  _ Hosea didn’t want to hear how this might turn out. He was usually the one with a level head, holding onto the undesired truth knowing false hope was more painful in the end. “Let’s just...do everything we can. Please.” 

There were no arguments from the others, the three of them wordlessly going back to work worryingly still frame on the couch. Christina carefully propped Arthur up so he wasn’t leaned against the cuts along his back, Tom disappearing for a moment and returning with Arthur’s satchel and bandages. Hosea hadn’t even seen the man grab the discarded bag. 

They wrapped gauze around his chest, Hosea talking softly when Arthur’s breath hitched in pain. He’d drifted off again at some point, but it was clear he was still feeling everything being doing to him. 

They’d soaked the burn with cold water, Christina’s brow furrowing when they laid the towel against his blackened skin. 

“What happened?” 

“I had to cauterize one of the bites,” Hosea said curtly, content to leave it at that and never think of those awful moments again. 

“Oh.” The silence fell again, Christina watching uncomfortably, and Hosea knew the question was coming before she opened her mouth. “What does that mean?” 

Hosea sighed, swallowing against the returning nausea. “It means...I had to burn his skin. To...to stop the bleeding.” 

He’d had to  _ torture  _ Arthur. He’d screamed more under Hosea’s knife than against the bear’s teeth, and he’d fought just as hard, in too much pain to understand what was happening, to realize why Hosea was hurting him. 

Christina sucked in a breath. “Oh,” she said again.

With no other choice, they’d eventually peeled the towel away and wrapped the burn in a bandage. Most of the bleeding around his torso had stopped, or at least slowed, but it was still far from the help Arthur needed, still at risk for infection and fever. 

Arthur’s face was still caked in dirt and blood, the scratches not nearly as severe as the rest of his injuries. It wasn’t as bad as what had happened to the side of John’s face back up in those mountains, but John had still been out of commission for weeks after the attack. And he’d lost a lot less blood than Arthur had. John almost hadn’t made it. 

Tom suddenly stood, wiping blood on his trousers. His gaze lingered on Arthur, jaw tightening as he seemed to debate with himself. 

“I’m going to get a doctor,” he said, already moving from the couch and stalking towards the hallway.

Christina balked. “Now?” 

“Yes,  _ now.  _ Darling, look at him he needs help. We ain’t enough, no matter what this man says. We can’t just sit here and let him die.” 

Hosea’s chest felt tight, and it took him a moment to find his voice. “I can go.” 

“No, you need to stay here,” Thomas argued. “Be with him just in case he doesn’t...look, Annesburg is less than a day from here. The folk know me there, I can be back with help in less than two days.”

Hosea blinked, suddenly realizing how long it had been since the world had offered them a shred of kindness. After so many dark months of failure and death, he’d almost forgotten there was light in the world. That people could be good. 

“Thank you.” 

It was the only thing he could think of to say. These people would never know how much their efforts mattered, but they just might save a man’s life. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a little longer to finish! It's been a while since I've explored original characters more and given them names, but I had fun with it last time.   
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

“My wife-” 

“She won’t even know I’m here,” Hosea promised, reading the man’s concerns like an open book. “Sir...just...thank you, again.” 

“I get it,” Tom said, and from the look in his eyes, Hosea thought maybe he did. “It’s the least I can do. You got rid of that scarred bastard for us.” 

Hosea huffed a laugh, dry and humorless. “I just wish I’d been faster.” 

Tom’s eyes softened, untying the horse from the wagon and climbing into the saddle. He didn’t look like an experienced rider, the horse old and unfit, and Hosea wondered if he would be fast enough. 

“You did your best,” he said, hardly reassuring. “He’s lucky to have someone watching out for him.” 

“Be safe, sir,” Hosea said, trying to push down his guilt. He could feel sorry for himself when Arthur recovered. “These roads tend to be dangerous.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Tom was leading the horse away from the cabin, pulling gently on the reins, and Hosea wished there was something more he could say to get his gratitude across. “You should get back inside. I hope...I hope your friend’s ok.” 

Hosea just nodded, watching as the man gave his mount a kick and thundered down the path, vanishing into the trees. 

For a moment, he couldn’t move, frozen to the dirt as he took in the silent air, savoring the absence of blood and burnt skin, letting the horrible memories of the afternoon sink in. 

“Sir? Sir!” 

The quiet was short-lived, Hosea snapped back to reality by the panicked cries from inside the house, and he quickly rushed back inside.

Christina looked up as he approached, crouched beside the couch with her hands hovering above Arthur’s chest. “He just...his breathing-he just started panicking, I don’t--” 

“It’s ok,” Hosea said softly, letting her move aside before lowering himself beside Arthur’s head. His breathing had sped up, his closed eyelids twitching. “I think he’s waking up. Do me a favor and grab another wet towel.” 

Christina nodded, scurrying down the hall in a hurry, Hosea scooting closer to Arthur when they were left alone.

“Hey.” He put his hand over Arthur’s, mindful of the bandaged wrist resting at his side. “Can you hear me? Come on, Arthur, open your eyes. I need to hear your voice.” 

He needed to know Arthur at least had a chance at making it through this. 

Christina was at his side again within moments, Arthur having only responded with a barely audible moan of quiet pain. Hosea took the towel and carefully folded the cloth over his hand, the water cool against his skin. 

He pressed the towel against Arthur’s forehead, gently wiping away the blood, dirt, and sweat, forcing a small smile when Arthur shifted. 

“That’s it,” he encouraged, hating how unnaturally pale the younger man’s skin was. “I’m right here, Arthur. Just open your eyes.” 

There was a hand on his shoulder, Christina squeezing gently as Arthur slowly came around, blinking sluggishly, his eyes watering as he struggled to stay focused. Hosea leaned closer, the rest of the world blocked out, unimportant. 

“H-Hosea…” His voice was somehow weaker than before, scared and lost, eyes still wandering. 

“Right here, Arthur,” Hosea said, the damp towel still caressing his face, and he hoped it would do something to set him at ease. “Hey, look at me. You doing ok?” 

Arthur blinked again, eyes finally meeting Hosea’s, still distant and confused. “Where...Hosea--?” 

“You’re safe,” he promised. “The bear, remember? You’re scratched up pretty good, but we got you help. We found people who are going to help you, alright?”

Arthur shifted against the couch, hissing in pain and squeezing his eyes shut, Hosea tightening the hold on his hand. Arthur raised his head to see his injuries, brow furrowing, and Hosea quickly moved to push him back down. 

“Don’t look, Arthur,” Hosea warned. They’d done the best they could, but the amount of bandages and still visible cuts and bruises would be alarming to anyone. “It’s not that bad, I swear. You’re going to be fine, you just need to rest.” 

Arthur still didn’t respond, but his gaze shifted to something over Hosea’s shoulder, and he was suddenly reminded that they weren’t alone. 

“This is Christina,” he said, catching sight of Arthur’s poorly concealed panic. “She’s a friend. Her husband’s getting you a doctor.” 

Arthur blinked again, his frantic breaths gradually slowing, and Christina flashed him a small smile, rising to her feet. 

“Do you want...do you think he can have some water?” 

Hosea nodded, Arthur swallowing against the dryness of his throat. “It can’t hurt. Thank you.” 

Christina nodded, sending one last worried glance towards the couch before disappearing down the hallway, Hosea’s shoulders dropping as soon as he and Arthur were alone again. He wrapped his hand around the younger man’s, meeting the glassy eyes, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say. 

“Arthur, I’m...I’m sorry, son. I should have acted faster, I am so  _ so  _ sorry.” It had only taken a few seconds for Hosea to get ahold of himself and begin firing, but it had been a few seconds too long, and Arthur was paying for it. 

Arthur coughed, face screwing up in pain. “It’s...it’s ok.”

“No, it’s not ok,” Hosea argued. “We shouldn’t have been out here in the first place. Dutch needs us close to camp, I don’t...I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Arthur’s eyes were slipping shut, his breathing growing almost relaxed as he faded out, leaving the pain behind. “It’s ok,” he said again. 

Hosea sighed, letting his grip on Arthur’s hand loosen, watching the younger man gradually drift off to sleep, the back of his mind screaming at him that Arthur wouldn’t wake up again. 

“You have to be ok, Arthur,” he said, the words meant mostly for himself. “I need you to get better, just...promise me you’ll get better.”

There was no response, not that Hosea had been expecting one, and he could only lean against the side of the couch as Christina set the glass of water on the table without a word and retreated into the other room. 

  
  
  


Hours passed, the sun sinking behind the treeline, the sky darkening into a hazy gray. Christina lit her lantern, casting a dim, golden glow across the cabin, and hung it by the door. Hosea refused to meet her pitying glance, focused only on his fears coming true right in front of him. 

Arthur was rapidly worsening, and they couldn’t get him to wake up. 

He had a fever, his skin now clammy and hot to the touch, cheeks flushed a dark red. His shivering had picked up again, teeth chattering despite the blanket they wrapped around him. 

One of the deeper cuts on his chest had started bleeding again, the crimson seeping through the bandage. It had taken too long to stop it, Arthur losing a dangerous amount of blood. 

Arthur had started muttering in his sleep, quiet and indecipherable things, crying out against the pain plaguing his rest, arching up when his wound was cleaned out and rebandaged. 

When he didn’t quiet, Hosea cautiously slid forward until they were both on the couch, mindful not to press against his injuries as he let Arthur cling to him, the younger still shaking and soaked in sweat. 

Hosea did all he could to comfort him, smoothing back the hair plastered to Arthur’s forehead, talking quietly, repeating his name in hopes of stirring him. 

He could feel the heat radiating from Arthur’s trembling frame, felt the shivering grow almost violent, heard the almost inaudible whimpers and pained cries. 

Christina was crouched in front of them, watching with a sympathetic frown, tears just visible in her sorrowful eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, like Arthur had already stopped breathing. “Tom’s still...I’m not sure if he’ll--” 

“It’ll be ok,” Hosea said, knowing he wouldn’t be able to take it if it wasn’t. “He'll pull through.”

“Sir, he’s...the fever…” 

“He’ll be ok,” Hosea insisted firmly, suddenly wishing Dutch was here. With nothing to focus on but Arthur resting against him, unresponsive and fading, he was coming undone dangerously fast. “I can’t...I can’t lose him, ma’am.” 

Christina bit her lip and nodded, saying nothing more as she smoothed down her skirt and lowered herself to the ground, leaning against the end of the couch. 

Hosea watched her from where he was propped up against the armrest, her determined gaze meeting his own. 

“It’s late,” he said quietly. “I’ve got him. You should get some sleep.” 

Christina shrugged. “I can sleep fine right here.” 

“You don’t have to--” 

“I’ll stay,” she assured, her pitying smile turning to one of compassion, and Hosea felt himself matching it. “Just in case he needs anything.” 

Hosea swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, wondering if it had been any other day if he would have just robbed these people like the countless others, oblivious to the kindness in their hearts, to what they were willing to do to save a stranger. 

He didn’t deserve to be shown kindness like this, not with the life he’d chosen to live. But Arthur was good, no matter how many times he was told otherwise, and he deserved to live. 

Hosea turned away from Christina to look back down at the sickeningly pale face against his chest, knowing there was nothing he could do but silently hope Arthur would open his eyes again. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the updates have been a little slower for this story (I hate being busy I have so many things I want to write) but I should have a lot more time this week!  
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

He must have fallen asleep without realizing, Hosea peeling his eyes open to find that the cabin had darkened significantly, the lantern having died at some point in the night. 

Hosea shifted, his body still sore and exhausted, eyes going wide when he realized how deathly silent the room had become, Arthur limp and unmoving against his chest. 

“No, no, no,” he chanted, immediately assuming the worst, that Arthur had lost too much blood, that he’d died soundlessly while Hosea slept. “Arthur? Arthur, please--” 

The younger man suddenly let out a shaky breath, the relief the tiny noise brought making Hosea lightheaded. He wrapped a hand around Arthur’s forehead, frowning when his skin only seemed to burn hotter than before, still soaking wet. 

“Hos... _ Hosea.”  _

“I’m here.” The cabin’s lack of light made it almost impossible to see clearly, but he could tell Arthur still hadn’t opened his eyes, his cheeks shining an unhealthy red. Christina was still slumped against the other end of the couch and Hosea, determined to let the woman have her rest, kept his voice as quiet as he could. “Can you hear me?” 

“Hosea?” 

The older man frowned and moved his hand to Arthur’s damp hair _. _ “I’m right here. Come on, Arthur, wake up.” 

“Hosea,  _ please…”  _ It was nothing but a breathy whisper, but Hosea could hear the fear in his voice. “Please, please, stop please,  _ stop.  _ Please, Hosea--” 

Arthur was moving, and Hosea’s heart sank when he saw him reaching desperately for the burn on his hip, whimpering in pain. 

Mindful of his bandaged wrist, Hosea carefully guided Arthur’s hands back to his sides, keeping his arms still and away from his injuries. The last thing they needed was Arthur hurting himself in his confusion. 

He was still whispering under his breath, still trying to move, and Hosea had no choice but to tighten his hold, keeping Arthur securely against his chest. 

“Sorry,” he said, not quite sure for what part. “Sorry, Arthur, I just need you to be careful. You’re ok, it’s just a dream. You’ve got a bad fever, nobody’s hurting you. Not...not anymore. It’ll be better when you wake up, I promise.” 

Hosea kept talking, not realizing how desperate and unsteady his voice had become, barely noticing when Christina scooted closer to him, only turning his head when she gasped quietly. 

“Is...is he--?” 

“He’s still with us,” Hosea assured, sighing in relief when Arthur finally quieted down, still trembling. “He wouldn’t...not yet. He’s still here.”

Christina nodded, wiping at her eyes, cautiously reaching forward to touch Arthur’s cheek. Had it been any other stranger, Hosea wouldn’t let them anywhere near Arthur while he was in this state. But he just watched her silently, nodding sadly when she pulled her hand back. 

“He’s still burning up,” the woman said, pulling herself to her feet. “I’m going to get him another cold towel.”

“Thank you.”

Arthur whimpered in his sleep, Christina briefly glancing over her shoulder before disappearing again. Hosea carefully propped himself up further, determined to stay awake, smoothing back Arthur’s hair as he waited. 

If he hadn’t been so distracted, so worn down from the toll the day had taken on him, he might have realized something was wrong before Christina screamed. 

Hosea was moving out from under Arthur in a second, shushing him gently as he lowered the younger man back down to the couch, rushing to the hallway when a new voice rang out. 

“Don’t move!” 

Hosea made it to the kitchen, skidding to a stop when he took in the scene in front of him, straining to see in the darkness. 

Christina was pressing herself against the wall, hands held in front of her chest, turning to Hosea with wide, tearful eyes. There was a man by the backdoor, the lock broken apart, his gun held out in front of him. 

Hosea froze, the stranger’s weapon pointed at his chest before he could react, slowly raising his hands. 

“Get the fuck back,” the man snarled, grabbing Christina’s arm and throwing her towards Hosea. “Both of you. Go!”  

“Alright,” Hosea said, voice calm as he took Christina’s shoulder, both of them motioned down the hall and back into the living room. “Whatever you say. But I can assure you, we have nothing worth taking.” 

“This ain’t a robbery, dumbass,” the man snapped, shoving them into the room. “I just need to...to...jesus, what the fuck’s wrong with him?” 

The man was looking at Arthur, shivering and mumbling on the couch, and Hosea forced himself to swallow his fear. 

“He’s very sick,” Hosea explained, glancing at Christina. “He’s got a fever, just leave him alone. He won’t be any trouble, I promise.” 

The man frowned but turned away from the couch, motioning to the far wall with his gun. Hosea gently took Christina's arm and led her forward, knowing the smartest thing to do would be to follow instructions and hope for the best. 

“I don’t need to kill any of you,” the man said, Hosea and Christina carefully sliding to the floor, the woman shaking almost as much as Arthur. “I just need to lay low. So stay still and stay quiet _.”  _

Hosea frowned. “You’re being followed?” 

“I said be  _ quiet.”  _

The man was pacing the small room, eyes going from his hostages to the window and back to the door, fiddling anxiously with his gun as he moved. Hosea barely paid him any mind, all his attention on Arthur, hating the forced distance between them. 

He heard it first, the stranger’s head snapping up in alarm as the thundering of horses broke through the quiet air. A part of Hosea hoped it was Tom and the doctor, another part of him doubting they would be much help while the man was still here. 

If it was lawmen hunting him down, as long as they didn’t recognize Hosea and Arthur, they might be able to get Arthur the help he needed. The men could have supplies, or they could head to Annesburg and meet Tom halfway. 

Anyone else would just cause them more trouble they couldn’t afford.

_ “O’driscoll!”  _

And it took what little control Hosea had left to not laugh out loud as soon as the unmistakable voice called out, tone laced with triumph and fury. Their luck finally seemed to be turning around. 

“We know you’re in there, boy!” It was Dutch’s voice, as loud and daunting as ever, and the O’driscoll visibly faltered, pressed against the wall. “Can’t have you running back to Colm, why don’t you come on out?” 

“I’ve got folk in here!” The O’driscoll yelled, Hosea resolved to watch him silently from the floor. “You make one move and I’ll kill em’ all, I swear!” 

The man was wild and panicked, but Hosea had no doubt he would make good on his promise. O’driscolls were never ones to hold back or take pity on their victims. 

This man, however, didn’t realize the mistake he’d made, didn’t know he had Dutch Van der Linde’s family held at gunpoint. But at the moment, neither did Dutch. 

“Listen to me, boy,” Dutch warned, growing gradually closer. “You have until the count of five to--” 

There was suddenly a hand twisted in Hosea’s shirt, yanking him to his feet and dragging him forward. He didn’t fight back, hands at his side as he was dragged to the window, Christina shrinking backwards.  

“I’ll kill this man!” the O’driscoll screamed, holding Hosea where Dutch could see. “Take one more step and I’ll put a goddamn bullet in him!”

Dutch slowed, stopping completely when he recognized the hostage. A look of surprise crossed over his face, quickly masked in the enemy’s presence. The Count was a few paces away, and he could make out Lenny still mounted beside him. 

Dutch’s eyes met his, calm and confident. “Good evening, sir. Are you hurt?” 

Despite the facade, the concern was genuine, but Hosea didn’t miss the hint of amusement in the man’s voice. Under any other circumstances, he would have found the situation funny, too. The O’driscoll had no idea who he’d taken prisoner, setting himself up for the worst, and no doubt last experience of his life. 

But Dutch didn’t know how dire their situation was becoming, how one wrong move could so easily tear their family apart.

“I’m fine, sir but-” Hosea paused, glancing at the O’driscoll. “My...my son’s hurt. Hunting accident. We have a doctor coming tomorrow.” 

Hosea doubted it would have been visible to anyone else, but he could see Dutch’s confidence slowly draining away as he realized that this wasn’t one of Hosea’s fabricated lies, that behind the mask, he was scared. 

“How bad is he hurt?” Dutch asked, low and in control, but Hosea could hear his own fear. To anyone else, the man would have sounded unfazed. Hosea knew him better than that. 

“He’s...it’s bad. I’m just asking you to be careful, I don’t want anyone to die tonight. Sir.” 

Dutch nodded, turning silently back to the O’driscoll who only tightened his hold on Hosea’s arm. The man was shaking, probably fearing for his life just as much as Christina. 

“You hear that?” he called, stepping back from the window. “I don’t want to kill these folks, but I will. And I’ll start with the sick one! So just leave me  _ alone.”  _

Dutch took a step back, eyes never leaving the O’driscoll. “You know I can’t do that.” 

“I ain’t coming out!” the O’driscoll said. “My boys are coming for me. They’re on their way!”

“So are mine.” Hosea could tell right away that Dutch was lying. “So I suggest you come out here like a man, and we can handle this quietly. Let those people go, this ain’t their fight.” 

The O’driscoll furiously shook his head. “I ain’t leaving. Not until you’re gone.” 

“Boy--” 

“I won’t kill them,” he said. “Not yet. Not if you stay  _ back.  _ And we’ll just...we’ll just see who gets here first, Van der Linde.” 

Dutch was backing away from the house, the scene making Hosea feel oddly alone and helpless as he was dragged back inside. 

“What exactly do you think you’re going to accomplish?” Dutch challenged, anger returning to his fading voice. “Other than murdering innocent men before you die?” 

“I don’t plan on dying,” the O’driscoll muttered, shoving Hosea back against the wall, gun still trained on the older man’s chest as he turned back to the window. “You got that? I ain’t the one dying in this cabin!” 

Dutch didn’t respond, and Hosea let himself fall back against the wall beside a shuddering Christina, the woman’s arms wrapped around her chest, rocking herself back and forth. 

Hosea reached forward, resting his hand on top of hers, offering a small smile. Christina wiped away her tears and squeezed his hand, resting her head against the wall, eyes closing as she choked back a sob.  

Arthur whimpered again in his sleep, breath briefly catching in his throat, morphing into a ragged, wet cough. Hosea could only watch, the O’driscoll standing in between them as the younger man grew worryingly silent. 


	5. Chapter 5

Hosea watched the O’driscoll pace back and forth, staying away from the window, eyes glued to the door, jittery and paranoid. It had been an hour, the cabin remaining still and quiet, but based on the way the man was acting Hosea knew Dutch hadn’t gone anywhere. 

Whether the O’driscoll was lying or not about his men coming, Hosea doubted Dutch would be backing down. The man clearly had something important, some information Dutch couldn’t afford to get back to Colm. 

Hosea closed his eyes, wondering how the hell they were going to get out of this one. They were running out of time. Keeping Arthur alive was his top priority, but getting him a doctor had already been difficult before everything spiraled downhill. 

Hosea’s eyes snapped open when Arthur’s ragged breaths suddenly stopped, the younger man arching up off the couch, mouth open in a wordless gasp. 

Hosea surged forward, freezing when the barrel of a gun was shoved in his face, the O’driscoll now blocking his view. 

“I told you to stay still!” 

“He’s not breathing!” Hosea begged, still able to hear Arthur struggling on the couch. “I need to help him! Please!” 

The man only scoffed. “What kind of fool do you think--” 

“We’re not going to try anything!” Hosea insisted, panic rising with each second. “I told you, he’s hurt! He needs help, just let me go to him  _ please!”  _

The O’driscoll hesitated, hands twitching on the gun, and Hosea thought he might have to fight his way through the man to get to Arthur. 

But finally, the gun was gone and the O’driscoll was stepping out of the way to let him through. 

“Alright,” he relented. “Make it quick. I’m watching you.” 

Hosea barely heard him, hurrying across the room and skidding to a stop beside the couch, hands hovering above a convulsing Arthur. He cupped a hand around the back of his neck, carefully guiding Arthur up off the couch. 

Hands grabbed at Hosea desperately, clutching his sleeves, kicking out, choking and gasping. His mind was racing, panic setting in as he tried to figure out what to do, coming up blank. 

“Get him on the floor!” Christina shouted, scrambling to her feet. “Lay him on his side, hurry!” 

Hosea did as he was told, the sharp urgency in her voice snapping him into action, moving his other hand to support Arthur’s back. He pulled him forward, as slow as he dared, hating the strangled gasp emitted from the younger man as he was lowered. 

“Watch his head,” Christina warned. She started forward, stopping when the O’driscoll moved to intercept her. “Do you want his death to be on your hands?  _ Move!”  _

If Hosea hadn’t been so focused on the fact that Arthur still wasn’t breathing, he would have loved to see the look on the O’driscolls face as he stepped away, Christina suddenly dropping to her knees beside Hosea. 

She grabbed the blanket from the couch, still soaked in sweat and dried blood stains, folding it up and shoving it under Arthur’s head. 

“He should start breathing on his own,” Hosea said, some of his senses slowly coming back to him. He took Arthur’s hand as the younger man reached him out, hating the way he was almost too hot to touch. “He’s...Jesus, I think his fever’s getting worse.” 

“You’ll be ok,” Christina whispered when Arthur’s chokes morphed to pained sobs. “You’ll be just fine. Won’t he?” 

Hosea, suddenly finding it difficult to talk, nodded in agreement. “Of course you will, son. I’m right here with you, Arthur. You’ll pull through. You always do.” 

It felt like hours, Hosea squeezing Arthur’s hand and stroking his hair, before Arthur finally took a breath, shaky and weak, rattling through his overheating body. 

“He’s still too warm,” Christina said, echoing Hosea’s thoughts. “We need to get him in a bath.” 

“You sure?” he asked. “His injuries--” 

“We can rebandage him after,” Christina argued, and Hosea suddenly found himself envious of how in control she sounded. “But the fever is going to  _ kill  _ him. Stay here.” 

Christina was gone without another word, Hosea moving his hand to support Arthur’s back. Heavy footsteps filled the living room, and he tensed when he felt the O’driscoll standing over him. 

“Do you need to point a gun at a dying man?” Hosea demanded, the words slipping out before he could stop himself. He risked a glance at the man above him, forcing himself to steadily meet his eyes. 

The O’driscoll looked unsure, glancing at the window once more before cautiously slipping the gun back in its holster. “What happened?” 

Hosea swallowed, wishing the man would just go back to pacing silently. He felt too vulnerable, crouched on the floor, defenseless, the O’driscolls eyes on him. 

“Bear attack.” 

“Shit,” the O’driscoll muttered. “I’m sorry.” 

“He’ll be fine,” Hosea said, tightening his hold on Arthur’s hand. “As long as you don’t end up getting him killed.” 

“I ain’t  _ trying  _ to get anybody killed,” he shot back. “But I don’t want to die any more than you do. I’m doing what I have to.” 

“I filled the bathtub,” Christina said, rushing back down the hall. “The water’s as cold as I can get it. Let’s get him down the hall.” 

“Come on, son,” Hosea said quietly, moving one of Arthur’s arms to drape over his shoulders. Christina crouched beside them, taking his other arm. “I’m so sorry, but we need to move you again. Ready?” 

Arthur didn’t respond, still too out of it to make anything out, but Christina nodded and they pulled the younger man to his feet, starting for the hallway. He cried out as he was dragged forward, Hosea wincing at the noise, trying to pull on the injuries as little as possible. 

“You’re ok,” Hosea muttered, kicking open the door at the end of the hall. “We’re almost there.” 

They didn’t undress him, not when they had so little time, and not while the O’driscoll was watching their every move. 

Hosea tried not to think about how freezing cold the water was, he and Christina carefully lifting him from the ground and guiding him into the bathtub. 

Arthur’s reaction was immediate, eyes snapping open as soon as he was dunked into the water. He gasped, moving to get away, shoving frantically at the hands trying to hold him steady. 

Christina yelped, jumping back when Arthur tried to strike her, icy water sloshing over the edge of the bathtub. “Sir, please--” 

“Arthur, it’s me,” Hosea tried, knowing that it was useless. “It’s just me, son, calm down. Please, Arthur, stop fighting me.” 

It was the second time he’d had to hurt Arthur, to beg a confused, hurting man to stop fighting for his life, to hold him down while he was inevitably tortured. 

Arthur kept kicking and thrashing, eyes wide and unseeing, the water gradually turning red as his cuts were reopened, quickly soaking through the sodden bandages. 

“Shit!” Hosea tried to keep him still, succeeding only in increasing Arthur’s panic, hurting him further. “Get him out! Quickly!” 

The bone of Arthur’s wrist slammed against the edge of the tub, Hosea flinching when he cried out again, his hand reaching out to clutch at the older man’s collar.

Hosea didn’t waste any time, tearing Arthur’s hand away to hook an arm under his shoulders. Christina took his legs, the two of them pulling him from the water and guiding him onto the bathroom floor, Hosea barely noticing his own soaked shirt as he pulled Arthur’s head to his chest.

His body was wracked with painful shivers, each one forcing another quiet whimper through chattering teeth. Most of the red had faded from his face, leaving Arthur somehow more pale than before, but he was awake. Terrified, confused, and hurting, but awake and breathing. 

The O’driscoll was suddenly in the doorway with an armful of towels, shoving them towards Christina.

“Found them in your cabinet,” he explained, eyeing the scene warily. “I thought maybe--” 

Christina took the towels from him without a word, wrapping one around Arthur’s shoulders, the younger man grasping weakly at the warm cloth.     

“Should we move him back to the couch?” she asked, and Hosea shook his head. The thought of moving Arthur again made bile rise in his throat. 

“I don’t want to risk it. We’ll keep him here for now, but...but we need to change his bandages.” 

Christina was nodding, already moving past the O’driscoll to get the medical supplies in the next room. Hosea didn’t bother watching her go, carefully peeling away a soggy bandage from Arthur’s torso. 

The O’driscoll took a step forward, and Hosea tensed. “Here, let me--” 

“Do  _ not  _ touch him.” 

Hey, suit yourself,” the O’driscoll said, stepping back. “I’m only trying to help.” 

“He doesn’t need your help,” Hosea snapped, pulling away the cloth from soaked, bloody skin. “He just needs to be safe until the doctor gets here.” 

“Stop acting like this is my fault.” The man leaned against the doorframe, Hosea refusing to meet their captor’s gaze. “I told you, I ain’t trying to get anyone killed. Seems to me he was dying before I got here.” 

“He’s not dying,” Hosea said. “Alright? Nobody here is dying.”

The O’driscoll scoffed, momentarily falling silent. “Yeah, well, you don’t know Van der Linde.” 

Hosea froze, vividly aware one wrong word could blow their cover. “What did you do to him?” 

“Nothing!” the O’driscoll insisted. “I mean, I...me and a couple others were riding out and we found where they’d set up camp. Or got close to it. They chased us off, killed the others, but I got away. Van der Linde thinks I’m gonna...that I’m gonna run and tell Colm...my boss, Colm, where he’s hiding out.” 

Hosea looked up, noticing for the first time how young the man was. He hardly looked like an experienced killer, but he was definitely a lost soul easily seduced by Colm’s wicked words. 

“Are you going to?” he asked, starting to understand the reasoning behind Dutch’s hesitation. The O’driscoll shuffled his feet, drumming his fingers against the wall. 

“It ain’t worth dying for,” he said after a moment. “But if my men don’t get here first, someone’s killing me when this is over. It’ll be my boss or the man outside and there ain’t nothing I can do about it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hosea said, working on the bandages around Arthur’s back and shoulders. “It’s a bad situation.” 

“For everyone,” the man agreed. “Shit, I’m...I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to bring anyone else into this I just--” 

“I understand,” Hosea said, knowing he would have done the same. But it didn’t matter. One way or another, in the end, the O’driscoll would have to die. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.” 

“I hope so.” He watched as Christina hurried back inside, crouching beside Arthur without sparing the man another glance. “I’ll be right outside. Let me know if you, uh, need anything.” 

Hosea said nothing as the O’driscoll backed into the hall, refusing to let himself feel sympathy, to get distracted by another man’s life. Arthur, soaked and held against his chest, still hadn’t said a word, shivering and staring blankly ahead. 

“Hey,” Hosea said softly, wrapping a hand around Arthur’s forehead. He still had a fever, but it was significantly less frightening than before. “You with us?” 

Arthur groaned when Christina pressed one of the towels into the bleeding gash across his stomach, but he wasn’t fighting back, and Hosea took that as improvement, that he recognized them. Either that or he was just too drained and exhausted to even try. 

“We’re running out of supplies,” Christina said grimly, wiping away as much of the blood as she could. “I’ll bandage him up as best I can.” 

Hosea nodded, closing his eyes when tremors continued to wrack through Arthur’s body, growing progressively worse. He swallowed, the aroma of blood and sickness wafting through the heavy air, making him dizzy. 

“Hang in there,” Hosea said quietly, hoping Arthur was awake enough to hear him. “Just for a little bit longer. It’ll be ok soon. I promise.” 

Arthur said nothing, only sucked in a shaky breath when Christina began to wrap up his chest, pressing himself up against the older man’s chest. 

Hosea went back to gently stroking his hair and muttering quietly, painfully aware that at this point, a doctor could only do so much. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked my stupid April Fools story yesterday that I definitely did not spend precious writing time working on


	6. Chapter 6

“Hosea?”

And although it had only been a couple of hours since he’d finally woken up, to Hosea it had felt like too long since he’d heard Arthur’s voice. He leaned closer, squeezing the younger man’s hand when his breathing picked up again. 

“I’m right here,” Hosea promised, trying to meet Arthur’s unfocused eyes. “Can you hear me?” 

It took a moment, Hosea just beginning to lose what little hope he had, before Arthur gave a weak nod, blinking rapidly. 

“It...it  _ hurts--”  _

“I know,” Hosea said. “I know it hurts, Arthur, but it’ll be over soon. Help is on the way. Do you remember what happened?” 

The question was purely selfish, Hosea desperately needing to hear Arthur’s voice to assure himself that the younger man was still alive, that this wouldn’t be how he died. 

Arthur nodded again, slow and timid. “Is it dead?” 

“Is it…” he trailed off, taking a moment to understand what Arthur was asking. “Oh. Oh, the bear. It’s dead, Arthur. We killed it, remember?” 

Arthur furrowed his brow, the small movement making him groan. “ _ You  _ killed it.” 

“Well, you put up quite a fight.” He was only assuming, judging by the knife lodged deep in the bear’s neck. He hadn’t seen much else, too busy fiddling with his gun behind the rock, taking too long to get ahold of himself and act. “You did good.” 

Arthur’s eyes slid down to his stomach, Hosea watching as he stared at his injuries. They hadn’t been able to bandage all of them, unhealed gashes and claw marks still visible. 

“Not good enough,” Arthur muttered, head falling back against Hosea. “Am I dying?” 

“No,” Hosea said sharply. Arthur was trying to act nonchalant, like he wasn’t scared out of his mind, but Hosea could see right through him. “You’ll be fine when we get that fever down.” 

Arthur didn’t respond at first, what little strength he had fading, his eyes beginning to flutter closed. “Next time let’s...let’s just shoot from the trees.” 

Hosea smiled sadly, pulling Arthur closer, the younger man silent. They’d managed to move him back into the living room, barely making it halfway before he’d cried out and collapsed, Christina resolving to wrap him in a blanket and keep him on the floor for the time being. 

“Clearly we don’t need that bait,” Hosea said lightly, hoping to do something for the sorrow in Arthur’s voice. “We were all the bait we needed.” 

“At least I’m good for something.” 

Hosea’s heart dropped, and he had to push back his frustration. Even running a dangerous fever, dazed and hurting, Arthur still said things like that, like he put himself down on instinct, the lies so ingrained into his mind that he couldn’t forget them. 

“Don’t say that,” Hosea snapped, instinctively tightening his hold. “Don’t say things like that Arthur. It’s not true and you know that.”

He waited for a response, for a begrudging agreement or pointless argument, even just a tired moan. But Arthur was silent, his quiet breaths the only noise filling the room. 

“Arthur?” The younger man was still, face slack in dreamless sleep. Hosea sighed, hand resting in his hair. “Get some rest. We’ll have you home soon.” 

  
  


The bath had done some good, despite the panic and pain it had caused, but the improvement quickly proved to be temporary. 

Arthur’s fever was steadily rising, his shivering worsening, cheeks once again red and flushed. He was muttering in his sleep, nearly inaudible cries and pleas, Hosea helpless to do anything but wait and hope. 

He and Christina did all they could to keep the fever down, but Arthur just seemed to grow worse, his cries louder, the wet towels on his face only agitating him further. 

Hosea could tell Christina was trying to be hopeful, sending him reassuring smiles whenever she pulled the cloth away from clammy skin, but he could see her resolve cracking, the way her hands would shake or her bottom lip would quiver when Arthur made a new noise of distress. 

“I’m...I’m really sorry, mister,” the O’driscoll said at one point. He’d been so quiet, Hosea had almost forgotten he was in the room. “I hope he...I hope he makes it through this.”

Hosea nodded, unable to feel gratitude or resentment or even a spark of hope, stuck in an empty, emotionless spiral of dread and uncertainty. 

“I do too,” he said, his own voice sounding strained and foreign. He refused to sleep, convinced Arthur would be gone the second he opened his eyes again. 

Arthur’s hand suddenly tightened around his shirt, his breath hitching as he went tense and rigid, whimpering in between indistinguishable whimpers. His breathing turned to quiet sobs, and Hosea carefully wrapped an arm around his back, securing him gently. He couldn’t begin to imagine how much pain Arthur was in, even under the veil of sleep. 

Christina was at his side again, watching sadly, both painfully aware there was nothing more they could do. He hadn’t started bleeding again, but they wouldn’t have the supplies to patch him up if he did. 

Arthur suddenly jumped, crying out when it pulled at his mauled body, eyes flying open and scanning the room in a panic, his breathing becoming dangerously labored. 

“Arthur!” Hosea tried to keep his voice steady and calm, but the panic was beginning to seep in. “It was just a nightmare, son. You’re ok, we’re right here.” 

It took too long, but Arthur’s eyes eventually landed on him, the look of frantic confusion gradually fading. 

“Hosea?” 

“It’s me,” the older man assured, smile forced. It always seemed to be the same, a gradual lull into awareness each time Arthur awoke. His eyes moved to Christina and he jerked back, breath catching in his throat. “It’s ok, Arthur, she’s a friend. Christina, remember? She’s helping you.” 

“Where…” Arthur trailed off, eyes widening as he glanced wildly around the room. “Wh--what’s...Hosea, what’s--?” 

Hosea frowned, cupping the back of Arthur’s head as he struggled to speak through chattering teeth. His confusion seemed to be worse this time, morphing into terror. 

“You’re sick, Arthur,” he said softly. “A doctor’s on the way, you’ll be fine.”  

“Hosea--” 

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” 

The words seemed to register, his voice doing something to set Arthur at ease. The cabin fell silent, Christina smiling as his breathing began to slow.

“O’driscoll!” 

The exclamation from outside, Dutch’s booming voice cutting through the distance with ease, made Arthur jump again, brow furrowing. The O’driscoll pulled out his gun, pressing himself against the wall beside the window. 

“Listen to me,” Dutch called, barely controlling his anger. “There’s two men out here. One of them is the doctor, you are going to let him inside. Understand me, boy?” 

The O’driscoll nodded, glancing at Hosea. “Like I said, I don’t want to--” 

“Dutch?” 

Everything fell silent, the room’s eyes on a delirious Arthur. Hosea felt cold dread sinking into his veins as he realized just how out of it Arthur was. He didn’t understand, and he couldn’t see the dangerous glint in the O’driscolls eyes. 

Hosea swallowed, his hands shaking as he did all he could to calm a suddenly frantic Arthur, glassy eyes searching for the familiar voice. 

“Dutch!” Arthur called again, strangled and shaky, but his desperation was obvious. Hosea did his best to keep him quiet, knowing it wasn’t his fault, refusing to meet Christina’s alarmed gaze. “Dutch, wh--”

“He knows him?” The O’driscoll was yelling, furious, Hosea doing nothing but running a hand through Arthur’s hair to keep him as relaxed as possible, the man turning back to the window. “Do you know these men, Van der Linde?” 

“Sir.” Dutch’ voice sounded farther away, the other man frantically backing away from the house. “There’s been--” 

He wasn’t even given time to finish, the O’driscoll turning to the men on the floor, his gun suddenly pointed at Arthur. Hosea pulled him close, shielding the younger man as best he could. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, sounding more scared than angry. “Who is he?” 

“Put the gun away,” Hosea said, meeting the man’s eyes calmly. Christina scrambled to the other side of the room, breaths quick and panicked. The O’driscoll paid her no mind, weapon still trained on a feverish Arthur. 

“Who  _ is  _ he?” 

Hosea’s first instinct was to lie, to run his mouth until something falls together, to point out that Arthur is too sick and confused to know what he had said. But a part of him knew that it would be useless, and not nearly as effective as the truth. 

“He’s Arthur Morgan,” Hosea said. “You’ve got Van der Linde’s most trusted held at gunpoint.” 

“Jesus,  _ shit.”  _

The weight of the situation seemed to drop all at once, the O’driscoll’s face paling, dropping in a mixture of resentment and dread. He started forward, cocking his gun, and Hosea held out his hand in a futile defense. 

“Do you have any idea what he’ll do if Morgan dies?” Hosea could easily imagine the extent of Dutch’s grief. Especially now, when the stress was threatening to crush him, when his mind was already so fragile. 

“I don’t--” 

“You’re worried about getting killed over some information?” Hosea challenged. “He dies because of you, and Van der Linde will make you  _ beg _ for death. You think Colm’s bad? You don’t know Van der Linde.” 

The O’driscoll faltered, his own words repeated back to him. He swallowed, eyes going from Arthur’s shuddering, pale frame, to Hosea’s cold, waiting eyes. 

“If I help him,” the man said after a moment, daring to sound hopeful. “You think Dutch will let me live?” 

Hosea knew, as much as he hated coming to terms with it, there was no outcome where this man was left alive. Even if he ditched Colm and ran on his own, they couldn’t set him free when he’d gotten so close to camp. 

“I’m sure he will,” he lied, hating the way the O’driscoll shoulders relaxed, a ghost of a smile creeping onto his face. “Just let the doctor in and...and hope for the best, alright? Nobody has to die.” 

The O’driscoll nodded, lowering the gun and moving to the door, unlocking the hatch and pushing it open. Hosea slowly started moving Arthur to a sitting position, talking quietly, letting his own hope begin to rise. 

It was over in an instant, Hosea’s head snapping up when he heard the thundering of horses approaching from the other side of the house. 

He moved to crouch over Arthur, barely given time to shout a warning before the first shot rang out. 


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur thought he might have heard gunshots, shouts and yells rising up around him, but it was nearly impossible to tell. Everything sounded strange and distant, miles and miles away, his mind too hazy to make anything out. 

He felt weightless and detached, eyes stinging as he blinked, trying to focus on what was happening around him with little success. 

Hosea’s voice was the first thing he was able to latch onto, the familiarity of the older man’s presence doing something to set him at ease. His hand was wrapped around the back of Arthur’s head, holding him close, Hosea’s eyes calm and steadying when Arthur finally met them. 

He was speaking, saying something Arthur should probably be paying attention to, but Hosea’s words weren’t registering, his voice a jumbled haze of noises Arthur couldn’t understand. 

He turned his head to try and get a look at his surroundings, to figure out where he was or what was happening, suddenly realizing how difficult it was to see. Everything was a disproportional blur of light and color, blinking nothing but making him dizzy.

It took him a moment, but Arthur was able to make out that he was laying on the floor, Hosea crouched over him, keeping him still. 

Something in his head cleared, and he was able to hear the swarm of gunshots, suddenly understanding what Hosea was trying to do. Arthur tried to twist away, wanting to help, wanting to see who was fighting, but it was almost impossible to move. 

He thought he might be underwater, feeling useless, slow, and sluggish. He thought the gunshots were close, but they still sounded muffled and far away, lost to the waves of the river he’d somehow sunk under. 

The noises around him seemed to be getting louder, closer, though it was still impossible to grasp onto anything. Arthur wondered if he was dreaming. 

There was a hand on his face, gently guiding him to face forward. Hosea was talking again, stern and commanding, and Arthur did all he could to understand, growing increasingly frustrated with himself when he couldn’t. 

But Hosea didn’t look mad, only scared and worried. Arthur closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. 

When he opened them again, Hosea was gone, and someone was screaming. 

“What did you  _ do?”  _ But he could hear him, the anger in his voice making Arthur flinch. He’d heard Hosea frustrated, he’d heard him lash out, but Hosea was very rarely this outraged. 

“Well, I didn’t  _ mean  _ to!” Arthur was fairly sure that was Dutch’s voice. He sounded angry too, and as hard as it was to stay focused, he could hear the other man’s panic. “Jesus, stop the bleeding!” 

“That’s what I’m doing! Is the boy dead?” 

Arthur thought he heard Dutch scoff, the growing confusion making his head pound unbearably. “I made sure of that.” 

“I noticed,” Hosea snapped. “He didn’t have to die, Dutch!” 

“He was an O’driscoll!”

Arthur swallowed, too weak to raise his head and see what they were arguing about. His chest felt tight, and it took him a moment to realize he was shivering, the room suddenly feeling like ice. 

“He was trying to help!” Hosea said, still furious. “You didn’t have to shoot a girl over him!” 

“It was an accident!” Dutch shot back, Arthur frantically struggling to find his voice. “God, Hosea, you know I wouldn’t--” 

_ “Dutch--”  _ it was barely audible, more of a desperate wheeze than coherent speech, almost all his strength used up getting his mouth to move.

But Dutch was suddenly standing above him, his smile forced as he dropped to his knees, hands hovering above Arthur’s chest. 

“I’m here now, Arthur,” Dutch promised, still sounded distant and muffled. “We’re both here. Just relax, ok? He didn’t get hit, did he?” 

“No,” Hosea said, and Arthur thought he remembered Hosea shielding him from the bullets. “But he’s--” 

“Gentlemen!” Dutch called, making Arthur flinch. “Get the hell in here, now! We need that damn doctor! Hurry!” 

Arthur's eyes were closing without his permission, a heavy darkness closing in around him, Dutch’s voice fading. 

“No, Arthur, stay awake.” There was a hand on his face, patting his cheek. It sent new jolts of pain through his aching body, but Arthur didn’t even have the strength to move away. “Stay with us. The doctor’s here, you’re going to be fine. Just try and stay awake. Please, son. Keep your eyes open.” 

Arthur wanted to do as he said, hearing the barely concealed panic in his voice. But he hadn’t even realized he’d failed until he pried his eyes open to find himself face to face with a man he didn’t recognize. 

He tried to move away, scanning the blurry room for Dutch or Hosea, but he could barely move, everything slowed, and suddenly there was a hand on the back of his neck, pulling his head up. 

Arthur tried to call out, now alone and scared and practically defenseless, but something cold was pushed against his lips, a bitter liquid sliding into his mouth. 

“It’s medicine,” the man above him informed, voice unclear and sounding almost like an echo. “Swallow. Don’t fight, I’m trying to help you.”

With no other choice but to choke on his own coughs, Arthur did as he was told and swallowed, shuddering when he felt it slide down to his stomach, suddenly feeling nauseous. 

“Try not to throw it up,” the man ordered curtly. “I’ll be right back.” 

Arthur didn’t even have the strength to nod, squeezing his eyes shut when his stomach roiled dangerously, swallowing against the rising nausea. 

He thought it had only been a second, but his head only felt fuzzier the next time he opened his eyes, crying out against a sudden sharp pain in his chest. Something was tugging at his skin, slow and agonizing, and Arthur suddenly felt grateful for the fog around his mind, no doubt the only thing making the pain bearable. 

“Doctor!” a man’s voice called. Another stranger, distant and hazy. The tugging on his skin stopped, and Arthur was just able to make out the man who had poured medicine down his throat. 

“I can stitch him up,” another voice said, and if Arthur had the strength he would have smiled. Hosea was beside him, steady and reassuring. “You cleaned out the wounds?” 

“All of them except the ones on his back,” the man explained. Arthur tried to focus on the words, fighting to keep himself from fading out again. “I can do that when you’re done.” 

The man was gone, and Hosea was above him, smiling when Arthur met his tired eyes. It looked like the older man hadn’t slept in days, hair disheveled and eyes bloodshot, and Arthur wondered how long he’d been ill. 

He’d fallen sick before, but he couldn’t remember a time where he’d ever felt this horrible. He still couldn’t quite wake up, everything feeling off balance and distant, cut off from the world like he was stuck in a dream. 

And then the tugging at his skin was back, and Arthur realized he must have been injured too, the sewing up of bad wounds an all too familiar pain. 

“You’re ok, Arthur,” Hosea was saying, Arthur straining to hear, to see what was happening around him. He thought he remembered Dutch being there, but the other man was nowhere in sight. “We’re finally getting you treated properly. You’re strong, you can hang in there. You just need to fight through this fever and you’ll be just fine.” 

It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Arthur, Hosea’s voice shaky and tired, but his hands were steady as he worked, and Arthur felt his eyes drifting shut again. 

“Where is he?” 

It had only felt like a heartbeat, the darkness cast away by blinding light as Arthur’s eyes snapped open, the strange, furious voice yanking him from forced sleep. 

“Sir--” 

“Where’d the bastard go?” The shouts were pushing away the heavy cloud around his mind, which did nothing but send new spikes of pain across his entire body. Moving was still almost impossible, Arthur feeling like he had been buried underground, weighed down by the earth around him. 

“I imagine he’s long gone.” It was Hosea’s voice, the only thing keeping him from spiraling into panic. “Sir, I am so sorry--” 

“Where’s my gun?” the man’s voice demanded. Arthur refused to blink, terrified of fading out if he let himself close his eyes again. 

“What’s a gun going to do?” Hosea asked, sounding drained and defeated. He wasn’t at Arthur’s side anymore, his voice drifting through the heavy air. “He’s gone by now and...sir, I saw it. It wasn’t his fault, it was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake and I am very sorry. But there was nothing else we could have done.”

The silence fell again, lasting long enough that Arthur thought he might have fallen asleep again. But after a moment the man spoke, voice laced with sorrow and grief. 

“Well, you can be damn sure I’m shooting your friend.” 

Arthur was fairly sure the stranger was talking about him, there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room, and it dawned on him suddenly that he wouldn’t be able to fight back. 

But Hosea still sounded calm, and Arthur tried to take comfort in his tone. “No you won’t, Tom.” 

“And why the hell not?” the man asked. “Why does he get to live and not her? Why is that fair?”

“It’s not,” Hosea agreed, and Arthur thought his voice was drifting closer. “I know it’s not. Trust me, I’ve...I’ve been where you are. But don’t take a man’s life because of it. Not him. Please.” 

Another beat of silence, Arthur keeping himself awake by focusing on his own quickening breaths.

“He’s almost dead anyway,” the man’s voice sounded. “I’d be...I’d be doing him a damn favor.” 

“Maybe,” Hosea said, sounding much too gentle for talking to a man shouting death threats. “But it won’t help. You won’t feel better. And if you shoot him, you’ll have to shoot me too.” 

Arthur heard the man sigh, the small noise barely audible over the small, constant clicking noise filling the air. He realized idly that it was his own chattering teeth, his body wracked with shivers despite the sticky sweat coating his skin. 

“You men need to leave,” the man said, and Hosea was suddenly crouched at Arthur’s side. “I need to...I need...you can’t be here anymore.”

“Sir.” It was another voice Arthur didn’t recognize, a third man he hadn’t realized was in the room. “We can’t put him on a horse. His injuries are--” 

“Then take my damn wagon!” the first man snapped, and Arthur felt Hosea’s hand around his. “I just need you to go. All of you. Please.”

Hosea’s hand was in his hair, the older man’s eyes meeting his, sad and tired, and he smiled gently. Arthur tried to match it, to do all he could to put Hosea at ease, but he was beginning to feel dangerously numb, the world melting away. 

“You still with us?” Hosea asked, Arthur hating the blatant worry in the older man’s voice. “We’re going home, son. We’re almost there, I promise.” 

Arthur couldn’t respond, long past understanding, the pain blissfully fading to the back of his mind as he finally fell into a deep sleep.  

 


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t the first time Arthur had fallen under without warning, suddenly growing still and unresponsive as sleep took over, but it didn’t make it any less terrifying. 

The nightmares seemed to be put at rest this time, his sleep deeper and far more peaceful, but Hosea couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. Arthur looked too much like a corpse, skin so pale it almost seemed see-through, face hollow and lifeless. 

They managed to move him into the back of the wagon without the younger man stirring. He didn’t even cry out when they laid him down, head propped against a wad of blankets. 

Tom hadn’t even looked up, crouched beside the couch where they’d put Christina, clutching her limp hand. Her dress was stained crimson, the countless cloths and bandages having long since bled through, the cushions below her soaked with her own blood. 

Hosea said nothing, helping the doctor carry Arthur outside, trying not to crumple beneath the guilt. He recognized Tom’s grief and anger all too well. He’d been about his age when he’d lost Bessie. 

“We’ll take him back to Annesburg,” the doctor said, pulling Hosea from his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t want to move him much further than that. You drive, I’ll stay in the back with him.” 

Hosea wanted to argue, he didn’t want Arthur out of his sight for another second, but he relented without a fight, climbing up to the driver’s seat. He glanced once more at the cabin’s window, into the broken household, wishing there was more he could have done, wishing he could help. 

But Tom needed to be alone, away from the men that had gotten his wife killed. He needed to bury her on his own. 

He waited until the doctor was settled in the back alongside a silent Arthur before starting forward, led by the unfamiliar horses. They could come back and find their own mounts when this was over. Hosea clutched the reins with unsteady hands and took them in the direction of Annesburg. 

Dutch would probably be there, ignoring Hosea’s warnings to get back to camp and lay low until they returned. He didn’t blame him, he wouldn’t have been able to leave Arthur behind in this state, but at the moment Hosea wasn’t sure he could look the other man in the eye. 

It hadn’t been his fault. Hosea knew that, knew Dutch had no intention of killing that woman, not after everything she’d done for their family. 

If the situation had been different, if they hadn’t been horribly outnumbered in the midst of a shootout, Hosea might have been able to convince him to let the O’driscoll live, or at least die painlessly. He’d fired from the window against his own men, probably the only reason Dutch had made it to the cabin alive, convinced it would save his own life. 

Dutch had burst through the front door seconds after the shooting miraculously died down, weapon ready, seeing nothing but the man who had taken his family, one of them sick and hurting, hostage. 

Christina had moved in front of him, hands held out in front of her, desperately trying to explain that everything was ok, that nobody else needed to be hurt.  

But Dutch had already been firing, at least have the decency to look appalled with himself as he fired a second shot through the O’driscoll’s chest. 

Hosea didn’t slow the wagon, no matter how many times his eyes twitched or his aching muscles spasmed. He couldn’t forget the fear he’d felt when he’d allowed himself to drift off, convinced Arthur had died soundlessly in his arms while he slept. 

Arthur had a chance now, but he needed to be somewhere warm. He needed more medicine and a real bed, and Hosea was determined to get them to town before it was too late. 

The sun sank behind the heavy trees, the horses grunting and protesting under the exertion, but he refused to slow. They rode through the night, Hosea briefly wondering if the bear’s corpse had been gruesomely picked apart by vultures yet, the moon beginning to disappear behind the leaves by the time the rooftops of the mining town came into view. 

“How’s he doing?” Hosea called, holding his breath, a part of him expecting the worst. 

“Fever’s still bad,” the doctor said, the wagon slowed to a gradual stop. “I’m doing everything I can. Help me get him inside.” 

Hosea was already climbing down to the muddy path, hurrying around to the back where the doctor was working on getting Arthur to sit up. He moved to help, but there was a hand on his shoulder, keeping him back. 

“It’s ok,” Dutch said, climbing into the back to help the doctor guide Arthur towards the opening. “I’ve got him.” 

“I can--” 

“Hosea, you’re exhausted,” Dutch argued, soft and gentle. It did nothing but put Hosea on edge. “You’ve done more than enough. Let me help.” 

Hosea said nothing and stepped back, biting back an argument he knew would be futile. Dutch shouldn’t be here, he should leave before the doctor called the law on all of them. The man had seen what Dutch had done to Christina.  

But he’d already taken almost all of Arthur’s weight, and the doctor seemed to be more concerned with getting his patient to safety than the moral obligations of a shootout gone wrong. 

Hosea suddenly felt useless, detached as he stood aside and watched the men lead Arthur inside. There was still dried blood caked under his fingernails. 

He shuddered against the early morning air, his shirt still damp from when a soaked Arthur had clung to him on the bathroom floor, and he suddenly remembered he’d left his coat behind, the heavy cloth soaked all the way through with Arthur’s blood. He’d lost too much. Hosea had done all he could, but Arthur had lost too much blood. 

There was a hand on his arm, carefully leading him up the porch steps and through the door. Hosea didn’t even try to fight against it, too tired to be upset. 

“Come on,” Dutch soothed, somehow sounding so impossibly calm when Hosea was seconds from losing it completely. “Get inside. I don’t want you getting sick, too.” 

Hosea thought Dutch might be making a joke, talking lightly, trying to get them both to breathe normally once again. It didn’t work, and Hosea barely even realized he was being lowered to a chair. 

Arthur was laid down on the bed in the corner of the room, a thin blanket draped over his chest, the doctor carefully placing a wet rag over his forehead. Once again his face was flushed, his whole body trembling. He still looked long past saving. 

“I’m going to give him another dosage,” the man said, and Hosea couldn’t even bring himself to focus on what the medicine was. “But for the most part, all we can do is keep him comfortable and calm.” 

“Thank you, doctor,” Hosea said, weak and quiet, the exhaustion catching up with him all at once. There was nothing else to say, the doctor didn’t know any more than they did.  

“Must have been one hell of a bear. He’s lucky to--” 

“Thank you, doctor,” Dutch said tightly, both men watching the man warily until the doctor finally took the hint, stepping down the hall into the other room. They didn’t need to hear how lucky Arthur had been. 

The door shut, and Hosea leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“He saw what happened,” Dutch said, pulling up a second chair. “He knows who fired first.” 

“You shot a girl, Dutch,” Hosea argued, wincing at the memory of the life slowly seeping from Christina’s face, the light flickering from her once eager eyes. A dark part of him wondered if the same would happen to Arthur. If it did, he wasn’t sure he could come back from it. If either of them could. “She and her husband are the only reason he’s still alive.” 

Dutch stared down at his hands, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Did she--?” 

“She’s dead,” Hosea said, more venom in his words than he’d intended. “You shot her in the stomach, there wasn’t much we could do.” 

“God, that poor woman,” Dutch muttered, eyes still on the floor. Another time, Hosea would have felt sympathetic. Now he just felt hollow. “I should have done more...I--I should have stayed and--” 

“It’s good you left when you did,” Hosea said, watching Arthur’s shallow breathing. “Arthur was pretty out of it and...Tom was furious. He would have shot you.” 

“And he’d have every right to,” Dutch agreed grimly, sucking in a breath. “Our luck’s going to turn around, Hosea. We’ve had a bad run but I promise you, I’m going to get us out of this. All of us. It won’t end like this.” 

Hosea only nodded, hardly hearing the sickeningly familiar speech. “Ok, Dutch.” 

The room fell into silence, Arthur’s occasional mutters the only noise filling the air. He never sounded particularly alarmed or pained, but Hosea refused to let himself believe the worst had passed. He showed no signs of worsening, but no signs of getting better.  

“Hosea,” Dutch said after a few moments. The older man raised his head, still refusing to look away from the bed. “You know I didn’t...I didn’t mean to kill her. You know it was an accident.” 

“I don’t know, Dutch,” Hosea said, finally turning to face him, expression blank. “Was Mrs. McCourt an accident?” 

“That’s not--” 

“No, I know. I get it.” Hosea wasn’t sure he did anymore. “You did what you had to do. I don’t need to hear it again.” 

Dutch was watching Hosea like a hawk, cold and unmoving, slowly turning his gaze back to Arthur. “Good.” 

“I’m just worried about us,” Hosea said, scooting forward so Dutch would meet his eyes again. “I’m worried about you. Things have been bad, Dutch. For all of us but you... _ you _ keep losing your head. That’s not like you and I’m just--just worried we’ve lost our way. We used to help people and now--” 

“I’m trying, Hosea,” Dutch snapped. “Goddammit, I am  _ trying.  _ And I will  _ keep  _ trying.” 

Hosea nodded again, anger and resentment already fading. “I know.” 

“We’re going to make it. I’m going to get us out of this, just like I always have. But I need you to stay with me. I need you to trust me.” 

“I trust you,” Hosea said quickly, the words leaving his mouth before he had time to comprehend them. Trusting Dutch was practically instinct at this point. Questioning him was foreign, wrong, but he couldn’t help the sliver of doubt at his own words. “I know you’re doing your best. I just...like I told you, I just want everyone safe before I go.” 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” Dutch said. It was an order, a statement, like he had some control over the matter. “I need you by my side, Hosea. You and Arthur. I can’t do it without you I can’t...I--I need him too…” 

Hosea sighed, pushing down his own panic and dread to replace his mask of calm. They couldn’t both be emotional wrecks. They wouldn’t make it through this if they were. 

“He’ll be ok,” Hosea said, wishing he could believe his own words. “We all will.” 

Dutch nodded, visibly struggling to keep it together, clutching the arms of the chair with shaky hands, watching the bed against the wall. Watching the boy he raised as a son. 

Hosea stayed where he was, hunched over, staring ahead at nothing. He dug his nails into the stained palms of his hands, the only way he could keep himself awake, listening to the weak breaths that filled the room. 


	9. Chapter 9

They’d put the bear beside his bed. 

Arthur didn’t know who’s idiotic idea that had been, why anybody would think that he would want to be anywhere near that thing, but here it was, skinned and beheaded, empty eye sockets staring at him through the shadows. 

He’d almost died, shredded apart piece by piece, still too weak to stand up by himself, but it was all worth it because he had gotten a matted, blood-stained pelt and the head of a bear he could make into the world’s ugliest hat. 

It wasn’t even like he’d won the fight against the animal. He didn’t want the trophy, didn’t need the reminder of how he’d failed to protect himself. 

It was the first time he’d been able to keep his eyes open, to stay awake and aware, and he’d been thrown into a blind panic, breath catching in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut as he was flooded with the returning memories.  

The bear was dead. He knew that. Hosea had been there, he’d shot it, he’d gotten it off of Arthur. But the feeling of claws raking down his chest, the vulnerability and pain, the way he’d choked on his screams, soaked in his own blood, everything was too vivid.

He tried to call out, but his voice wouldn’t obey him, the pressure on his chest too tight, knives digging into his skin, pressing deeper. He could smell blood, burning flesh, he could hear his own screams. 

There had been gunshots, strangers, voices and yells. Hosea had been there, keeping him calm, keeping him safe, but he was alone now. 

He blinked, reaching up to wipe the crust from his eyes, clenching his jaw when he realized just how weak he still was. Everything was coming back to him, dull aching pains throbbing constantly, his chest and stomach on fire. 

It felt like he was weighed down, his movements stiff, and he let himself fall back against the cot he’d been placed in, furrowing his brow to make sense of his surroundings, pointedly looking away from the pelt across from him. 

He was in his tent, the familiar surroundings of Horseshoe Overlook filtering in, and he tried to force himself to relax. He was home, the bear was dead, and although he felt awful, he was alive. 

The flap to his tent suddenly opened and Arthur jumped, every part of his body instantly protesting as he cried out, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath. 

“Arthur?” 

He could feel claws against his skin, the animal’s hot breath blasting into his face, tearing him apart like a piece of paper. Arthur could hear the voice above him, could hear the footsteps closing in, but he couldn’t respond, couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight, blood and air slowly seeping away. There were gunshots--

“Arthur!” 

His eyes snapped open, gasping as he suddenly remembered how to take a breath, the pressure released as Hosea’s voice came into focus. Arthur hadn’t even realized he’d been clutching the older man’s hand, Hosea crouched beside his bed, concern and apprehension obvious. 

“Arthur?” he asked again, squeezing his hand. “That’s it, just breathe. You’re ok, Arthur, you’re fine. Can you hear me this time?” 

Arthur wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he’d had enough experience to know what the aftermath of a bad fever felt like. He nodded, set at ease by the way Hosea’s shoulders relaxed. 

“Good, Arthur,” Hosea soothed. “That’s good. You still have a fever, but it’s better now. A lot better.” 

Arthur swallowed, bracing himself to speak, throat dry and raw. “S-still don’t feel great.” 

“I know,” Hosea said, his hand suddenly on Arthur’s forehead. “We weren’t...for a while we weren’t sure you’d pull through. We were able to move you here a week ago. You’ve been...you’ve been pretty out of it.” 

Arthur nodded again, still feeling uncomfortably warm, still soaked with sweat and plagued with sharp throbs. 

“How…” he swallowed, hating how lightheaded he felt. “Can I see how bad it is?” 

Hosea looked reluctant, hesitating before carefully pulling back the blanket, his hand supporting Arthur’s neck as he worked on sitting up. 

Some of the bandages had obviously already been removed, smaller cuts and gashes healing faster than others, still looking far from healthy. Two bandages, both clearly recently changed out, were wound around his chest and stomach, a third wrapped across his shoulder and back.

There was another injury just above his hip, the skin a sickening black rimmed with a deep red, the pain seeming to worsen as soon as he looked at it. It was a burn mark, a bad one. When did--?

One look at Hosea’s face, the guilt-ridden eyes now refusing to meet his, answered all of Arthur’s questions. He remembered the pain, his screams, the way Hosea had apologized like it had somehow been his fault. 

“Couple of these will scar,” Arthur muttered, not really caring, clearing his throat in between words. “You good?” 

Hosea’s head snapped up, blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d heard Arthur correctly. “Am I...am  _ I  _ good? Jesus, Arthur. Yes, I’m fine. I’m not the one who almost died.” 

“Just making sure,” Arthur muttered, smiling to himself. “Guess you ain’t too old for hunting just yet.” 

Hosea huffed a laugh, the light not quite reaching his eyes. “I think that might’ve been my last trip. And yours too. For a while, at least.” 

“I don’t plan on going anywhere.” 

The tent fell silent, Arthur working to bask in the familiar activities of camp, the footfalls, the muffled voices, the smell of Pearson’s stew, but Hosea still wouldn’t meet his gaze. He’d known the older man long enough to know exactly what was going through his head. 

“It’s ok, Hosea.” 

“I know,” Hosea said, running a hand over days old stubble. “I told you it would be. You just need some more rest and the fever will--” 

“No, I mean...I remember what you had to do,” Arthur corrected, glancing at his burnt hip, and Hosea fell silent. “And it’s ok. It was probably worse for you than for me.” 

Hosea scoffed, still wringing his hands. “Then you don’t remember it very well. Arthur, you were...I had to--” 

“You saved my life,” Arthur said, trying to block out the memory of what had happened on that forest floor. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you, old man. Thank you.” 

“I’m just glad you’re ok.” 

The rest of the memories were slowly coming back to him, and Arthur thought he remembered the voices of strangers and kind faces he didn’t recognize. 

“What happened to that woman?” Arthur asked, flashes of gentle words running through his head. “What was her name?” 

“Christina,” Hosea replied dryly. “She’s dead, son. We ran into some O’driscolls while you were...one of them, uh, one of them shot her. There was nothing we could do.” 

“Jesus,” Arthur muttered. “Poor girl. I’m sorry.” 

Hosea shrugged, leaning back in the chair. “It was a bad situation but...like you’ve said, sometimes things go wrong. People die.”

“Just seems like a lot of people are dying lately,” Arthur muttered. Hosea didn’t respond, and Arthur found himself latching onto another memory. “Was Dutch there?” 

Hosea nodded. “He and Lenny were chasing down some O’driscolls that got too close to camp. He got us out. Just like he always does.” 

It sounded so much like Dutch, showing up just in time to rain hell down on his enemies, to pull his family from the flames and get Arthur to safety. Any other time, he wouldn’t have questioned it. He almost didn’t, almost didn’t hear the shift in Hosea’s tone. The older man had always been a good liar. 

“Hosea--” 

“Well, look who’s decided to join us!” He hadn’t even heard Dutch approach, the other man now standing in the tent’s entrance, a genuine smile plastered on his face. “How’re you feeling, son?” 

“Like I was mauled by a bear,” Arthur mumbled, earning a small smile from both men. He carefully sank back down against the pillows as Dutch stepped inside, brow pinched in gentle concern. 

“How’s that fever?” he asked, already reaching forward to touch Arthur’s forehead with the back of his hand. 

“Better,” Hosea said, like Arthur was incapable of answering himself. “A few more days of bed rest and I think he’ll be ok.” 

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ Arthur spat, no real malice in his still weak voice. “I ain’t the one who went head to head with a bunch of O’driscolls.” 

And there it was again, that flash of emotion in their eyes Arthur couldn’t read, the quiet shared glance of something he didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

“Did that woman get buried?” Arthur asked, studying their faces. “Christina? After that, uh, after that O’driscoll shot her?” 

There was a beat of silence, a flash of uncertainty lasting less than a heartbeat, but it was enough. 

“Her husband took care of it,” Dutch explained, grief and regret genuine. “He wanted to be alone. We were more focused on getting you help.” 

Arthur nodded, forcing himself to bite back his whimper as the pain in his gut steadily increased, his eyes growing heavy. He was tired, sick, and misreading the situation. That was all. 

There was a hand on his, squeezing gently, and Arthur glanced up to see Dutch crouched beside his head, steadily meeting his gaze. 

“You’re going to be ok, son. We’re  _ all  _ going to be ok. Because I have you two by my side. I’m going to get us out of this, just like I promised.” 

Dutch’s hold kept Arthur tethered in place, his voice forcing his doubts below the surface. His words were an anchor, keeping Arthur where he was, giving him no choice on how to respond. 

“I know, Dutch.” 

“Just stay with me,” Dutch continued, glancing back at Hosea as he spoke. “I need you to trust me.” 

“You know we do” Hosea agreed, speaking for the both of them. Questioning was never an option. They were both held in place, and they weren’t coming undone. “We always have, and we won’t go anywhere. You’ll figure something out, you always do.” 

Dutch nodded, mostly to himself, seemingly satisfied, visibly set at ease. He gave Arthur’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and moving to the tent’s entrance. 

“I’ll let you get some rest,” he said, slipping outside. “You should do the same, Hosea. It’s been a long week.” 

Hosea nodded, pushing himself to his feet as Dutch disappeared into the sunlight, pausing when Arthur cleared his throat. 

“Hosea?” he called, turning to the bear pelt draped across the chest, empty eyes staring at nothing. “You, uh...you mind getting rid of that? I don’t really...someone will probably give you a good price for it.”

Hosea was already moving, rolling up the huge pelt and throwing it over his shoulder, lifting the head with his free hand. 

“Of course. Sorry, Arthur, we just thought--” 

“It’s fine,” Arthur said. He tried to wave him away, finding that he couldn’t raise his hand, his strength gone. “We just need the money.” 

Hosea nodded, turning to drag the dead bear outside without another word. But Arthur wasn’t done, still fighting to keep his eyes open. 

“I ain’t going anywhere.” 

Hosea froze, shoulders hunched. Arthur watched as he set the bear down, far enough away so Arthur couldn’t see it, slowly turning around to face the bed. 

“I know.” 

“So you can’t either,” Arthur said, suddenly wondering what would have happened if one of them hadn’t made it back. A part of him was terrified he’d have to find out someday. “Dutch needs you, Hosea. We all do. Now more than ever.” 

Hosea was silent, hesitating, watching as Arthur gradually lost the fight to stay awake, the quiet darkness pulling him under. 

“Get some sleep, Arthur,” Hosea said, voice fading as he left the tent and went back to work. 

Arthur couldn’t argue, letting himself fade away, letting himself forget his doubts and worries. For the moment, he was content to stay exactly where he was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I really loved writing Dad Hosea throughout this story, Hosea really loved Arthur like a son. ̶H̶e̶ ̶d̶e̶s̶e̶r̶v̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶  
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! I have a couple of oneshots planned before the next multi-chapter story, but there's definitely more coming soon! I really love writing these, and your comments really make my day so thank you all so much!


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